Church Ladies

From the time that I was a babe in arms, I have gone to church. And over the years I have discovered the influencing nature of church ladies.

My earliest memory is of Mrs. Hoover, a round woman with a large bosom who smothered you when she gave you a hug. I picture her today in a blue polyester dress with an embroidered print. The fabric was itchy and she smelled of Avon bath bubbles. I don't think that she and my family were particularly close. I just remember being hugged. For a little girl going to church, hugs can leave a big impression.

I remember my high school youth group leader, who eventually became a second mother to me. It was because of her support and encouragement that I found the confidence to spread my wings.

Later in life there was Grandma Jane, a recently widowed senior who adopted me and my young children after my divorce. I could call Grandma Jane at 4:30 on any Friday night and ask "Want to have dinner tonight?" In response she would have one of two answers ... "Sure, let me get my pocket book." or "Sorry, dear. I already have plans." At 85+ years old, Jane may have slowed down, but she never stopped.

Today I worship with Miss Betty, who sings in the church choir. Name any ailment and she has had it over the years. Her hands are crooked from arthritis, complicating her daily tasks. But ask her how she is doing, and she'll respond "Oh, I'm here, and that counts for something."

Just in front of Miss Betty in the choir is Geri. Her husband of 50 anniversaries died last year. Her grief was etched on her thinning face for months. I don't think she's missed a Sunday worship service since her husband's death. I can't speak for her, but given their lengthy relationship with the church, I suspect she finds him still there.

My mother is a church lady, helping cook and serve hundreds of meals and lead as many studies or meetings. Her life has not been easy, but her faith has been steadfast.

In all of these women I have found examples of perseverance, strength, joy and faith. And thoughts of them embrace me and leave an indelible mark.

Not a Slacker

Ok, beloved fans. Yes, it has been a day or two or three since I have posted to my blog. No, I am not a slacker. There's this thing called "life" that got in my way. I hate it when that happens!

Today was the perfect day. I went to church. Came home and took a 3 hour nap. Went to get burritos with my family. Played the first round of tennis for the season. And capped it all off sitting by our firepit. Now it's time to reflect back on the week and see what lessons I've learned.

I learned that even though my son is almost 16, when he gets hit with a baseball in a place that doesn't feel good, all other parents still look at me in judgement because he isn't wearing a cup. My son owns a cup. He even owns the cup holder. I bought both of them for him. I don't think I should have to text him each day with a reminder to "Have a good game. And protect the family heritage."

I learned that once a co-worker gets on your nerves, he/she is almost always on your nerves. I'd like to be the person who can forgive and forget, who can move on with life, who can shrug certain things off. Maybe next week I'll learn how to do those things.

I learned that cranberry and vodka are very good together.

I learned that online weight management programs still charge you a monthly fee even when you haven't signed on during the month.

And I learned if a pizza place doesn't have pepperoni as one of it's options for toppings I shouldn't spend $12 there for lunch.

Stay tuned for more life lessons. I have to go trade out laundry now so my son's baseball uniform will be ready for tomorrow. I hope he remembered to wash his cup holder.

Can't Write That

Early on as I begin my blogging I am realizing that I need to pick and choose how much I write about the husband. He has issues with guilt, usually self-imposed at this point. So some things that I write may not appear as funny to him as hopefully they are to you.

For instance, I’m not sure if I can write about the two dozen or so burnt dinners that have occurred over the past year when he was in charge. I can’t describe the scent of split pea soup that was left to fully boil for 2 hours when the recipe clearly said to simmer … and watch carefully. I can’t write about the frozen pizzas which looked more like molten lava two days after an eruption. (Who burns frozen pizza?) If I do, his thoughts turn to deprived children who were starving to death under his watch.

I also cannot write about the bathroom paint job which had to be redone because someone pulled the wrong can off the shelf while I wasn’t home. If I do, his thoughts turn to failing as a handyman and letting his relatively new wife down. 

And never, ever can I bring up again the trip to go hiking in southeastern Ohio while we were dating. I was in charge of the picnic. He was in charge of getting directions. When we saw the “Welcome to West Virginia” sign, and he pulled out his laptop to check where we were, I knew something was wrong. If I do, his thoughts turn to the time we missed in the woods and a ruined getaway. It really wouldn’t have been so bad if the highway patrolman hadn’t suggested we backtrack via a road that had more curves than Brittany Spears career, causing me to get horribly car sick.

I definitely have to be more careful. I can’t write about any of this stuff.

Evil Twin

When I get behind the steering wheel of a car, I become the evil twin of my normally calm, composed self. I talk to other drivers. All of them.

To the guy who blows by me: "What, you don't like this life well enough you have to go shooting for the next? Hope you don't take any innocent victims with you."

To the slow guy whom I have to pass: "There's this new feature on most cars. It's called an accelerator. When you step on it, the car magically begins to move forward." OR "Pedal. Pedal hard."

Other drivers rub me the wrong way, but the one that I have the hardest time with is my husband. Some drivers are very good  at following or leading when two cars are traveling together. It's a simple process. You decide who is going to take point and then the other person follows. Throw in a little communication, and it's easy. That's the way it works.

Not on a trip to Indianapolis. The December after we got married we decided to gift the entire family with a weekend getaway to include indoor bumper cars and sledding. I, being the "think ahead" traveler that I am, got printed directions off the computer. My husband had a GPS. He wanted to be point, so I agreed to follow.

As you head into Indianapolis from the East, you can either travel straight on I-70 or you can take the outer loop. As we approached this decision point, I called my husband on his cell and asked which he was going to do. He responded, "Let's take the loop." This was fine since I was already in the right lane to take the appropriate exit in two miles. As I took the exit I watched my husband continue straight.

I called him again. "Um, Dear, didn't you say we were going to take the loop?" Response: "Yeh, but at the last minute the GPS told me to go straight."

My evil twin was REALLY not happy.

Horrible Roommate

I am a horrible roommate. It doesn't matter if I've shared a living space with a fellow college student, a best girl friend, my children or my husband. I am a horrible roommate.

I get up first every morning, just so I can hog the hot water. My husband thinks I'm a morning person. Nope; I just like hot water. When I am ready to go to bed, everyone should go to bed. If there is one last swig of milk, it's mine. I don't play rock, paper, scissors to see who gets to take a nap on Sunday. I do. I love my family, but I could easily become a female hermit, just so I could always choose what to do each day. I might allow the dog to stay. He lets me do anything I want, as long as he can tag along.

Over the years I've had to learn to rein in my naturally selfish tendencies. Children will do that to you. And marriage requires that whole "give and take" thing. For several years I was a single parent, on the go from 6 AM to 10 PM. When the kids were put to bed, I had a glorious 30, maybe 45 minutes of awake time to myself. It was my time to regroup, reflect, apply fragrant lotion to that rough skin on my elbows.

Being a horrible roommate has been the roughest part of being married again. You can tell my husband is still a newly wed. If he minds that I am territorial, he doesn't let me know. If I turn the TV off at night in the middle of the third quarter of a tied hockey game, he just quietly goes to the living room to watch it. And, he graciously sleeps in most mornings, just so I can get up first and hog the hot water.

What is the mantra for AA ... admitting you have a problem is the first step? I admit I'm a horrible roommate. Does anyone know what step 2 is?

Have to Start Somewhere

In 4 days, I will be accomplishing something that has been on my "bucket list" for a while. I am attending a nationally acclaimed writer's conference. In short, I am taking a step to pursue a dream of mine. Yes, I will be in a room with 349 other wanna-be's, some of whom are already Be's. Yes, I will be a rookie, standing in a major league stadium, with what is sure to be an awe-struck look on my face.

And, yes, I can't wait!